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THE WAYS OF THE HOUR
“It is surely natural to lie!”
“That is it, and this is the very reason we should not throw
extraordinary protection around a thousand tongues which
speak by means of types, that we do not give to the natural
member. The lie that is told by the press is ten thousand times
a lie, in comparison with that which issues from the mouth of
man.”
“By George, Tom, if I had your views, I would see that some
of this strange young woman’s money should be used in sustaining her, by means of the agents you mention!”
“That would never do. This is one of the cases in which
`want of principle’ has an ascendancy over `principle.’ The upright man cannot consent to use improper instruments, while
the dishonest fellows seize on them with avidity. So much the
greater, therefore, is the necessity for the law’s watching the
interests of the first with the utmost jealousy. But, unfortunately, we run away with the sound, and overlook the sense
of things.”
We have related this conversation at a length which a cer-
tain class of our readers will probably find tedious, but it is
necessary to a right comprehension of various features in the
picture we are about to draw. At the Stag’s Head the friends
stopped to let the horses blow, and, while the animals were
cooling themselves under the care of Stephen Hoof, McBrain’s
coachman, the gentlemen took a short walk in the hamlet. At
several points, as they moved along, they overheard the subject of the murders alluded to, and saw divers newspapers, in
the hands of sundry individuals, who were eagerly perusing
accounts of the same events; sometimes by themselves, but of-
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JAMES FENIMORE COOPER
tener to groups of attentive listeners. The travellers were now
so near town as to be completely within its moral, not to say
physical, atmosphere being little more than a suburb of New
York. On their return to the inn, the doctor stopped under the
shed to look at his horses, before Stephen checked them up
again, previously to a fresh start. Stephen was neither an Irishman nor a black; but a regular, old – fashioned, Manhattannese coachman; a class apart, and of whom, in the confusion
of tongues that pervades that modern Babel, a few still remain,
like monuments of the past, scattered along the Appian Way.
“How do your horses stand the heat, Stephen?” the doctor
kindly equired, always speaking of the beasts as if they were
the property of the coachman, and not of himself. “Pill looks
as if he had been well warmed this morning.”
“Yes, sir, he takes it somewhat hotter than Poleus, in the
spring of the year, as a gineral thing. Pill vill vork famously, if
a body vill only give him his feed in vhat I calls a genteel vay;
but them ‘ere country taverns has nothing nice about ‘em, not
even a clean manger; and a town horse that is accustomed to a
sweet stable and proper company, won’t stand up to the rack
as he should do, in one of their holes. Now, Poleus I calls a gineral feeder; it makes no matter vith him vhether he is at home,
or out on a farm he finishes his oats; but it is n’t so vith Pill, sir
his stomach is delicate, and the horse that do n’t get his proper
food vill sweat, summer or vinter.”
“I sometimes think, Stephen, it might be better to take
them both off their oats for a few days, and let blood, perhaps;
they say that the fleam is as good for a horse as the lancet is for
a man.”
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THE WAYS OF THE HOUR
“Do n’t think on’t, sir, I beg of you! I’m sure they has doc-
tor – stuff in their names, not to crowd ‘em down vith any
more, jist as varm veather is a settin’ in. Oats is physic enough
for a horse, and vhen the creaturs vants anything more, sir,
jist leave ‘em to me. I knows as peculiar a drench as ever vas
poured down a vheeler’s throat, vithout troublin’ that academy in Barclay street, vhere so many gentlemen goes two or
three times a veek, and vhere they do say, so many goes in as
never comes out whole.”
“Well, Stephen, I’ll not interfere with your treatment, for I
confess to very little knowledge of the diseases of horses. What
have you got in the paper there, that I see you have been reading?”
“Vhy, sir,” answered Stephen, scratching his head, “it’s all
about our affair, up yonder.”
“Our affair! Oh! you mean the inquest, and the murder.
Well, what does the paper say about it, Hoof?”
“It says it’s a most `thrilling a’count,’ sir, and an `awful trag-
edy’; and it vonders vhat young vomen is a coming to, next. I
am pretty much of the same vay of thinking, sir, myself.”
“You are in the habit of thinking very much as the newspa-
pers do, are you not, Stephen?” asked Dunscomb. “Vell, ‘Squire
Dunscomb, you’ve hit it! There is an onaccountable resemblance, like, in our thoughts. I hardly ever set down to read a
paper, that, afore I’ve got half vay through it, I find it thinking
just as I do! It puzzles me to know how them that writes for
these papers finds out a body’s thoughts so vell!”
“They have a way of doing it; but it is too long a story to
go over now. So this paper has something to say about our
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JAMES FENIMORE COOPER
young woman, has it, Stephen? and it mentions the Biberry
business?”
“A good deal, ‘Squire; and vhat I calls good sense, too. Vhy,
gentlemen, vhat shall we all come to, if young gals of fifteen
can knock us in the head, matched, like, or in pairs, killing a
whole team at one blow, and then set fire to the stables, and
burn us up to our anatomies?”
“Fifteen! Does your account say that Miss Monson is only
fifteen, Hoof?”
`She appears to be of the tender age of fifteen, and is of
extr’ornary personal attractions.’ Them’s the werry vords, sir;
but perhaps you’d like to read it yourselves, gentlemen?”
As Stephen made this remark, he very civilly offered the
journal to Dunscomb, who took it; but was not disposed to drop
the conversation just then to read it, though his eye did glance
at the article, as he continued the subject. This was a habit with
him; his clerks often saying, he could carry the chains of arguments of two subjects in his mind at the same moment. His
present object, was to ascertain from this man what might be
the popular feeling in regard to his client, at the place they
had just left, and the scene of the events themselves.
“What is thought and said, at Biberry, among those with
whom you talked, Stephen, concerning this matter?” “That it’s
a most awful ewent, ‘Squire! One of the werry vorst that has
happened in these werry vicked times, sir. I
heard one gentleman go over all the murders that has tak-
en place about York during these last ten years, and a
perdigious sight on ‘em there vas; so many, that I began to
vonder I vas n’t one of the wictims myself; but he counted ‘em
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THE WAYS OF THE HOUR
off on his fingers, and made this out to be one of the werry
vorst of ‘em all, sir. He did, indeed, sir.”
“Was he a reporter, Stephen? one of the persons who are
sent out by the papers to collect news?”
“I believe he vas, sir. Quite a gentleman; and vith some-
thing to say to all he met. He often came out to the stables, and
had a long conwersation vith as poor a feller as I be.”
“Pray, what could he have to say to you, Stephen?” demand-
ed the doctor, a little gravely.
“Oh! lots of things, sir. He began by praising the horses, and
asking their names. I give him my names, sir, not yourn; for I
thought he might get it into print, somehow, that Dr. McBrain
calls his coach – horses after his physic, Pill and Poleus” “Bolus,” was the real appellation that the owner had been pleased
to give this beast; but as Stephen fancied the word had some
connection with “pole – horse,” he chose to pronounce it as
written”Yes, I did n’t vish your names to get into the papers, sir;
and so I told him `Pill’ vas called `Marygoold,’ and `Poleus,’
`Dandelion.’ He promised an article about ‘em, sir; and I
give him the ages, blood, sires, and dams, of both the beauties. He told me he thought the names delightful; and I’m in
hopes, sir, you ‘ll give up yourn, arter all, and take to mine,
altogether.”
“We shall see. And he promised an article, did he?”
“Yes, sir, quite woluntary. I know’d that the horses could
n’t be outdone, and told him as much as that; for I thought, as
the subject vas up, it might be as vell to do ‘em all the credit I
could. Perhaps, vhen they gets to be too old for vork, you might
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JAMES FENIMORE COOPER
vish to part vith ‘em, sir, and then a good newspaper character
could do ‘em no great harm.”
Stephen was a particularly honest fellow, as to things in
general; but he had the infirmity which seems to be so general among men, that of a propensity to cheat in a transfer
of horse – flesh. Dunscomb was amused at this exhibition of
character, of which he had seen so much in his day, and felt
disposed to follow it up.
“I believe you had some difficulty in choosing one of the
horses, Stephen” McBrain commissioned his coachman to do
all the bargaining of this sort, and had never lost a cent by
his confidence “Pill, I think it was, that did n’t bring as good a
character as he might have done?”
“Beg your pardon, ‘Squire, ‘twas n’t he, but Marygoold.
Vhy, the thing vas this: a gentleman of the church had bought
Marygoold to go in a buggy; but soon vanted to part vith him,
‘cause of his shyin’ in single harness, vhich frightened his vife,
as he said. Now, all the difficulty vas in this one thing: not that
I cared at all about the creatur’s shyin’, vhich vas no great matter in double harness, you know, sir, and a body could soon
coax him out of the notion on it, by judgematical drivin’; but
the difficulty vas here if the owner of a horse owned so much
ag’in his character, there must be a great deal behind, that a
feller must find out as vell as he could. I ‘ve know’d a foundered animal put off under a character for shyin’.”
“And the owner a clergyman, Stephen?”
“Perhaps not, sir. But it makes no great matter in tradin’
horses; church and the vorld is much of a muchness.” “Did
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THE WAYS OF THE HOUR
that reporting gentleman ask any questions concerning the
owner, as well as concerning the horses?”
“Vhy, yes, sir; vhen he vas done vith the animals, he did
make a few obserwations about the doctor. He vanted to know
if he vas married yet, and vhen it vas to happen; and how much
I thought he might be vorth, and how much Mrs. Updyke vas
counted for; and if there vas children; and vhich house the
family vas to live in; and vhere he should keep the slate, arter
the veddin’ had come off; and how much the doctor’s practice
vas vorth; and vhether he vas vhig or locy; and, most of all, he
vanted to know vhy he and you, sir, should go to Biberry about
this murder.”
“What did you tell him, Stephen, in reference to the last?”
“Vhat could I, sir? I don’t know, myself. I ‘ve druv’ the doctor
often and often to see them that has died soon arter our wisit;
but I never druv’ him, afore, to wisit the dead. That gentleman
seemed to think he vas much mistaken about the skeletons;
but it’s all in the paper, sir.”
On hearing this, Dunscomb quickly turned to the columns
of the journal again, and was soon reading their contents
aloud to his friend; in the meantime, Stephen set Marygoold
and Dandelion in motion once more.
The account was much as Dunscomb expected to find it; so
written as to do no possible good, while it might do a great deal
of harm. The intention was to feed a morbid feeling in the vulgar for exaggerated accounts of the shocking the motive being
gain. Anything that would sell, was grist for this mill; and the
more marvellous and terrible the history of the event could be
made, the greater was the success likely to be. The allusions to
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JAMES FENIMORE COOPER
Mary Monson were managed with a good deal of address; for,
while there was a seeming respect for her rights, the reader
was left to infer that her guilt was not only beyond a question,
but of the darkest dye. It was while reading and commenting
on these articles, that the carriage entered Broadway, and soon
set Dunscomb down at his own door. There the doctor left it;
choosing to walk as far as Mrs. Updyke’s, rather than give Stephen more materials for the reporter.
108
CHAPTER VI
“Then none was for a party;
Then all were for the state;
Then the great man help’d the poor,
And the poor man lov’d the great:
Then lands were fairly portion’d;
Then spoils were fairly sold;
The Romans were like brothers
In the brave days of old.”
Macaulay.
It has been said that John Wilmeter was left by his uncle at
Biberry, to look after the welfare of their strange client. John,
or Jack, as he was commonly called by his familiars, including
his pretty sister, was in the main a very good fellow, though far
from being free from the infirmities to which the male portion of the human family are subject, when under the age of
thirty. He was frank, manly, generous, disposed to think for
himself, and what is somewhat unusual with his countrymen,
of a temperament that led him to make up his mind suddenly,
and was not to be easily swayed by the notions that might be
momentarily floating about in the neighbourhood. Perhaps a
little of a spirit of opposition to the feeling that was so rapidly
gaining head in Biberry, inclined him to take a warmer inter-
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JAMES FENIMORE COOPER
est in the singular female who stood charged with such enormous crimes, than he might otherwise have done.
The instructions left by Mr. Dunscomb with his nephew,
also gave the latter some uneasiness. In the first place, they
had been very ample and thoughtful on the subject of the prisoner’s comforts, which had been seen to in a way that is by no
means common in a gaol. Money had been used pretty freely
in effecting this object, it is true; but, out of the large towns,
money passes for much less on such occasions, in America,
than in most other countries. The people are generally kind –
hearted, and considerate for the wants of others; and fair words
will usually do quite as much as dollars. Dunscomb, however,
had made a very judicious application of both, and beyond the
confinement and the fearful nature of the charges brought
against her, Mary Monson had very little to complain of in her
situation.
The part of his instructions which gave John Wilmeter most
uneasiness, which really vexed him, related to the prisoner’s
innocence or guilt. The uncle distrusted; the nephew was all
confidence. While the first had looked at the circumstances
coolly, and was, if anything, leaning to the opinion that there
might be truth in the charges; the last beheld in Mary Monson
an attractive young person of the other sex, whose innocent
countenance was the pledge of an innocent soul. To John, it
was preposterous to entertain a charge of this nature against
one so singularly gifted.
“I should as soon think of accusing Sarah of such dark of-
fences, as of accusing this young lady!” exclaimed John to his
friend Michael Millington, while the two were taking their
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